


Stormheart

by myriddin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aftereffect of Rickon's unique upbringing, Age Difference, Age difference makes Rickon about 16, Davos being awesome, Direwolves bonding with Starkling significant others, F/M, Possessive Behavior, Queen in the North Sansa, Skagosi culture speculation, Unplanned Pregnancy, Wolvie litters, fostering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 22:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4322895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myriddin/pseuds/myriddin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wolf-blooded boy with a storm in his heart. She never truly stood a chance.</p><p>Background Jon/Sansa, Arya/Gendry, Sam/Gilly, and Lothor Brune/Mya Stone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stormheart

When all was said and done, the last thing Shireen Baratheon had ever expected was to end up at Winterfell.

After the harsh winter had taken her mother and her father had fallen in battle against the Others, it was Davos, brave, loyal Davos, who whisked her away from the dangers surrounding her. Davos, who had followed his king to the end of the known world and sacrificed so much to do so. Scarred and battered Davos, who had lost an entire arm to the frostbitten touch of an Other but still found the strength to hoist her unto his horse and take her away.

She could still remember Davos' sad, sad smile when they rode upon a camp flying the direwolf sigil, his beard tickling as he kissed her forehead and handed her over to Jon Snow's protection. Jon was as kind as she remembered. He assigned men to travel with Davos to White Harbor, then wrapped her in his cloak as he informed her he would be escorting her to Winterfell.

The presence of the Dragon Queen and the Lost Prince in the South made returning there ill-advised. Neither Storm's End nor Dragonstone were her inheritance any longer, only a name despised by half the realm and bittersweet memories. And Davos had decided the best way to keep his last promise to his King was not to send his only child back South where her life and freedom could be in jeopardy. At best, the child (still definitively a child in his mind, no matter how the nobility seemed to consider a girl of ten and four a woman grown), would end up in the custody of her Florent or Estermont relatives and be married off far too young to someone unworthy who couldn't see past the greyscale scars to the cleverness and beauty underneath. So he went to the only person he could think of who would care enough to realize the Princess deserved better.

Jon did care, did agree, and that was how Shireen Baratheon became a ward of the Queen in the North.

Shireen flourished at Winterfell. She had received a basic education befitting a daughter of the nobility when Maester Cressan still lived, but it was under Her Grace's tutelage that she learned to be a lady. She had lessons in history and politics with Maester Samwell, riding and archery with Lord Snow, but it was with Queen Sansa that she spent most of her time.

Sansa Stark was the very embodiment of grace and beauty, but beyond that, she was clever, generous, just and devoted to her people, everything Shireen had imagined a Queen to be. It was little wonder that she came to idolize her guardian. She learned dance, courtesies and needlework, but also how to keep accounts, run a household, receive audiences and listen to grievances.

Best of all, no one seemed to give the scars on her face more than a second glance. Whether it was based on orders from the Queen or just following her example, it was a breath of fresh air like her life had never known. The first stirrings of spring that accompanied her fifteenth birthday encouraged her further out of her shell and she began to take advantage of the free run the Queen had given her over the castle.

Visits to the kitchen would yield treats and giggling conversation with the girls who worked there. Cook even taught her to bake a pie. Thom, in charge of the glass gardens, showed her how to tend to the tender seedlings growing there. She spent hours in the stables learning to care for her mild-mannered mare, Honey.

It was an adventure in itself to get to know the others residing in the castle. There was Arya, technically a Princess but refusing to acknowledge the title, possessed a fierce, fiery nature that both intimidated and intrigued the shy Shireen, as she watched the She-Wolf run around Winterfell with a sword at her hip and a blacksmith at her heels. Arya's second, taller shadow was Ser Gendry of Hollow Hill. Where one met, the other followed.

Shireen had been delighted to discover Gendry's relation to her. She had a lonely childhood, and having Edric Storm for a playmate for those few precious months had become treasured memories. But the boy she knew was gone and in his place was Edric Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End. Even in the unlikelihood they ever set eyes on each other again, it would be as strangers. Shireen's efforts to bond with Gendry were tentative and slow, mostly to do with Gendry's resentment toward his sire (womanizing drunk, were some of the kinder descriptions she'd heard him use), but it was progressing. Her joy only expounded when she discovered that the feeling of familiarity she had around one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting wasn't her imagination. Both Mya and her husband, Ser Lothar, who served as Captain of the Guard, were so genuinely happy to get to know her that Shireen was overwhelmed in the most pleasant of ways.

What truly cemented her her place at Winterfell was the afternoon Arya brought her down to the kennel to meet Nymeria's first litter. It was Gendry who placed a tiny, squirming bundle of jet-black fur in her arms and Shireen was so enthralled she didn't notice the keen eyes watching her closely, human and lupine alike. The cub wriggled closer and Shireen giggled as a warm, coarse tongue peeked out to lick her cheek.

Shireen looked up to find herself being closely regarded. Gendry was grinning, Arya looked unmistakably smug, and Nymeria was watching her impassively. Shireen might have been imagining the subtle approval she sensed from the direwolf, but she had witnessed too much of the bond between Starks and their wolves to dismiss much of anything.

And later that evening at dinner, she heard Arya remark to her sister, "You were right. The little fawn is perfectly comfortable being surrounded by wolves. She'll do just fine here."

Her bond with Sable, as her new friend came to be called, was deep even without reaching the intensity the Starks shared with their wolves. Even being the smallest of her three siblings (her sister, Frost, had bonded with Sansa, causing a strong reaction in the Stark siblings Shireen couldn't begin to understand, and her brother, Bull, had begun shadowing Gendry everywhere he went despite her cousin's bemusement), Sable grew quickly and impressively. Lord Snow had laughed when she expressed her confusion, explaining how Sable's sire, Ghost, had himself been the runt of his litter, before growing to be larger than his siblings.

Sable was nearly fully grown the day she led Shireen into the godswood for the first time. It was a quiet afternoon as they walked through the wood, Shireen admiring her surroundings as her companion chased squirrels and leaves stirred by the wind. Sable freezing in place, her hackles rising defensively, was her first indication something wasn't quite right.

A giant black wolf emerged from the trees, dwarfing Sable by several stones, and Shireen didn't have time to gather her wits before another figure appeared at the wolf's side.

Shireen had only seen Rickon Stark a handful of times in the two years she had been living at Winterfell. He was a near mythical figure in the North since his outright rejection of his birthright and highborn lifestyle. The Wild Wolf, refusing and unable to be tamed. His family had gone to long thinking him lost forever to try and force him into a life he didn't want, and so he came and went as he pleased but always managed to return to those who loved him.

When he stayed for a time in Winterfell, he took some effort in his appearance to please his oldest sister, but here, in the place sacred to his ancestors, was the first time Shireen had ever seen him in his full element. He was nearly naked save for a pair of buckskin breeches, blue paint smeared across his face and chest, but it was his eyes that rendered Shireen still as a statue.

She could feel the burn of his gaze as if he meant to scorch her skin. Ours Is The Fury, she had heard countless times throughout her childhood, but she had never thought to apply them to a person until this very moment, as she could see the storm brewing in brazen blue eyes, fixed on her with the intensity of twin suns.

A wolf-blooded boy with a storm in his heart. She never truly stood a chance.

xx

Even with her blemished face, Shireen knew she could never be considered pretty. Not with her oversized Florent ears and her father's broad, squared jaw. And so when she was ten and six and Sansa tentatively broached the topic of marriage, making it quite clear it was not an obligation but a choice, Shireen was neither particularly optimistic about her prospects nor bothered enough to pursue them.

She contented herself with her duties, aiding in the running of the household. She had a particular talent for helping to keep the accounts and assisting Maester Samwell in his scribing. She also discovered she was good with children, learning routines and methods of care from a kind servant by the name of Gilly. Time passed and children began filling the halls of Winterfell once again, making for a bustling nursery Shireen was happy to spend her time in. There were Sansa's twin boys, Torrhen and Eddrick, Arya and Gendry's daughter, Raya, and Gilly taking up duties as a nursemaid meant that her little ones, Aemon and Rose, were often underfoot.

Time in the nursery also inadvertently molded her into a keeper of secrets. Arya would come at odd hours to stand quietly at her daughter's cradle, unacknowledged tears in her eyes, and sometimes if the night was still and dark enough, she would haltingly confess fears and insecurities regarding motherhood and her relationship with Gendry. Lord Jon stopped in often to check on the children, the longing in his eyes and the dark curls crowning the little princes' heads answering a question she truly hadn't needed to ask.

No, marriage was not an option she truly considered. Perhaps if life had remained simple, things would have been different- the fondness she remembered seeing in Devan's eyes might have matured and grown. But no, things hadn't remained that way. That much was evident the year Queen Sansa took another ward. Her reunion with Myrcella was bittersweet, sweet to see her again but bitter because of the rejection and the ostracizing that led to her fostering.

Their uncle Tyrion, she knew, had formally adopted both Myrcella and her brother as Lannisters despite their illegitimacy. Tommen was heir to Casterly Rock, betrothed and squiring for his cousin, Ser Daven, but Tyrion had sent his niece away. Entrusted her to his former wife, perhaps, but away all the same. Shireen hadn't understood until she summoned the courage to address the matter one day as the two girls sat with their needlepoint.

Myrcella had stopped and sighed, lips curling into a wan, humorless smile. "We carry the sins of our parents, sweet Shireen. I look too much like my mother. Tyrion can't bear to see my face."

Despite her parents' infamy, Myrcella was beautiful, and Shireen felt little surprise when Sansa was able to arrange her a suitable match. Brandon Tallhart was even-tempered, handsome and completely infatuated. It was the least Myrcella deserved after everything she had been through.

In all, Shireen received five offers for her hand over as many years, some half-hearted, some pitying, some attracted to the dowry the Queen had arranged. The most memorable had been a proudly shouted declaration from little Gawen Glover. She told the best stories, he informed the stunned adults around them, and what better way to hear them every night than to make her his wife?

She politely refused every one. She was honestly surprised no one had yet caught on that she was already spoken for, had been since the day ten-year-old Rickon Stark had appeared before her in the godswood and growled his claim. A simple, possessive and unmistakeable, "Mine."

He set her senses on fire whenever his eyes found her. He was passion and intensity, the embodiment of a living storm, one that raged just below the surface of his skin. From the first time they touched, when she watched the tempest in his eyes begin to calm with the slide of her skin against his, she knew there was no going back.

His long absences made the reunions all the sweeter.

xx

Ancient, gargantuan trees towered above them, proud and beautiful as thick, crimson foliage created a canopy above them that blotted out the rays of the setting sun. Shadows of cobalt and gray played across the godswood floor as Rickon moved through the trees, his nose twitching as he caught wind of a familiar, alluring scent and he closed in on the object of his search.

His strides were silent, soundless as he stepped closer, but like always, she (mate, lover, other half) sensed him near and turned to face him. Everything about her posture, eyes and expression were welcoming. He ached for her and everything in and around him urged him to make those few final movements. Doing so, he did not hesitate to go to her.

In the faint glow, Shireen's eyes seemed to shine, soulful and enticing. They were as blue as the sea, enigmatic, magical and deep. He raised his hand with a gentleness he only seemed to display with her and lightly caressed her cheek. A half-smile tugged at her lips as she stepped forward into the circle of his arms.

Gentle fingers moved from his wrist to slowly trail up his hand, arm and shoulder, finally coming to rest at the back of his neck. "Rickon."

Rickon's mouth curled into a rare, languid smile. Her scent filled his nose, enveloping him, calling to him, as he wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her warm, lithe body against his, and lowered his head toward hers.  
They kissed hungrily, anything else was a forgotten sensation in the uprising heat generated between them, generous shadow cast over them to veil their clandestine intentions.

Shireen slipped a hand inside his tunic, skimming her fingers over the defined shape of his pectorals. She made quick work of stripping his upper half as Rickon lifted his arms to pull the garment over his head. She flattened her palms just beneath his ribs as she caressed every bit of naked skin she could reach. He struggled with the ties at the back of her dress and grunted with frustration. In interest of not having yet another dress torn and ruined, she pulled away, reluctance in every movement. She loved the way he felt when he wanted her, tense and hungry.

Dark eyes narrowed as she backed away, lighting up as they read the mischief in her expression. "Shireen," he growled.

"Rickon," she countered.

The chase was on.

xx

There was something about this particular brand of hunt that never failed to thrill Rickon. His nature and training enabled him to stalk through the forest with the stealth and grace of a wolf, a lurking prowler hidden in the shadows, waiting for his chance to strike.

To feel his body loose and flowing with motion yet tense with anticipation, muscles contracted, ready to spring at the absolute opportune moment. Like being in battle, but so different at the same time. His blood was heated, desire thrumming until the instincts and impulses were as much a part of him as flesh and bone.

He had waited impatiently, giving her the head start she needed. He trotted soundlessly through the forest, the primal thirst for the chase stirred inside of him. As well as he has taught her, she was still so easy for him to track.

He would catch her sooner or later, but for now, he would let her have her fun.

xx

When he found her, it was on the banks of the hot springs. She stripped from her dress, leaving her naked to the cool night air. Her pale skin glowed ethereally in the moonlight, her long tresses of coal-black hair falling down the smooth expanse of her back as she released the binds of her braid. Lithe, soft curves fueled his deep, deep hunger to press as close as possible, wrap himself around her and lose himself inside her.

She smoothly submerged herself into the water, the warmth enveloping her with the familiar comfort of a lover. He edged closer, and her ears perked up at the rustle in the nearby leaves.

She knew he was there.

"Rickon," she whispered.

He struck a breathtaking sight as he stepped into her view, stripped bare to leave clear he was a magnificent example of masculine beauty, broad shoulders and powerful muscles rippling as he launched himself from his vantage point. He landed effortlessly on the soft bank and was quick to join her in the water.

Their eyes met, strong arms encasing her as he pulled her tightly against him. He nuzzled her neck, rough hands slowly skimming up her back, sending heated shivers down her spine. His lips were against her throat in soft ministrations, warm breath brushing against sensitive skin as he exhaled. "Are you mine, Shireen?"

Her head fell back to allow him better access as he trailed soft kisses down her neck and shoulder, tongue swathing against flushed skin, teeth scraping lightly against the sensitive spot just beneath her jaw. It was just like Rickon that he could so effortlessly find that spot, as he had from the moment he made the discovery, their first time. He was intensely observant, attentive and focused to everything he did, especially regarding her.

She reciprocated his touch, pressing her lips to his neck. He felt it when they parted in a breathless whisper of his name. "I'm yours, my wolf. As you are mine."

xx

Rickon had a reputation. It was whispered that The Wild Wolf fucked the same way he fought: wild, free and unrestrained. But Shireen would never know, for there was never a time when Rickon didn't touch her with care. But Rickon also ascribed fully to the Skagosi culture he had been raised in, believing that life should be lived freely and fully, whether applied to sex, love or war.

Her lover had been a man far longer than most knew. The Skagosi marked manhood in stages and accomplishments rather than age. His first hunt, his first scar, the first blood he drew in battle, rendered him nearly a man in their eyes. The last barrier to manhood was to be bonded, the informal Skagosi form of marriage that more resembled temporary partnerships, and bedded. Rickon spoke fondly of Sharra, the widow who had served as his bond-mate.

Rickon bedded freely among the Skagosi and Free Folk, the physical pleasure of sex distinct in his mind from the possession and intimacy of their bond.

Perhaps Shireen should have been upset or bothered in some way, but the moments when he gazed down at her, the storm in his eyes calm and clear, she knew she wouldn't change her wild wolf, her living storm, for anything.

xx

Shireen was two and twenty when she found herself with child.

There was little reprimand that came her way, only a strange mixture of resignation and congratulations. The one reaction she truly wanted to see had to wait, as Rickon did not reappear until she was nearly six months along.

He slipped into her room during the night, the dark masking his reaction when he reached out to touch her and discovered the changes their child had brought. Rickon had always been gentle with her, but he was particularly tender on this night, as they made love slow and sweet.

She brushed her fingers across the shaved sides of his head, toying with the wolf-tail at his nape. Rickon placed a calloused hand against her lower abdomen, fingers splaying out to cradle the soft, rounded swell where their child rested. She still couldn't see his expression, but the soft kiss pressed near her navel spoke volumes.

Oddly enough, she remembered the bemused expression that had overcome his face the moment they realized a now fully grown Sable had grown heavy with her own litter earlier that years. Of the four, Shaggydog's paternity had been most obvious in the youngest pup, Shadow, so named not just for his black coat but also how close he still followed his mother, and consequently, Shireen. There was little mystery to the why, likely to do with the Stark-blooded babe growing in her womb.

She brought her hand to rest against the back of Rickon's neck, brushing her thumb against his hairline in a slow, continuous stroking. Always a move that served to relax him, she felt the tension begin to seep from his body. "Mine?" he asked hoarsely, a noticeable crack in his voice.

"Yours."

Defiant as ever, Rickon was in the room when she brought their son into the world. When a loud, hearty cry finally broke through the air, he was met with his mother's joyful relief, his father's bemused wonder, and his aunt's beaming, proud smile.

When the midwife placed the babe into her arms, the thick black hair capping his crown was no surprise. But when she stroked her finger across the soft, unblemished skin of his little cheek and tired eyes fluttered open ever so slightly, their shade of winter gray was.

"Have you decided what you'll name him?" Sansa asked softly.

Shireen gazed down at the miracle in her arms and looked up to meet Rickon's eyes. How he saw and understood the question in her eyes, she didn't know, but his nod was all the answer she needed. "Davos. His name is Davos."

"Davos Stark," Sansa repeated firmly, the authority in her voice absolute as she named her nephew a Stark and not a Snow.

Shireen smiled, amused as Sansa waved away the midwife and showed Shireen how to settle Davos into a proper position to nurse. Afterward, the queen excused herself, taking most of the room's other occupants with her.

As their son latched on and began to hungrily suckle, Shireen calmly regarded her nervous, hovering lover. "Rickon?"

He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, his thoughts so frenzied and jumbled he could only fall back on a familiar response. "Mine?" he croaked.

It was amazing how one word could be mean so much, this single use encompassing the entire situation laid out before him. Shireen, her heart, their child, a family, his place beside her and at Winterfell. Of course it was his. It would always be his.

"Yours."


End file.
